Near death on the 17:27 to Cardiff Central
Last night, my friend Al and I escaped the horrors of daily office life to catch the train back home to our respective pads in Europe's youngest capital for an evening of risotto-making and knitting (me) and smoking wackety backy, bonking and whatever else it is that 20-somethings do (him).
It was a train with rows of two seats on one side, an aisle, then rows of three seats. I chose the three-seat side as you get a great view of: this castle, the River Taff and a field full of bunnies. It was nice to have a bit of leg room for a change. We sat on either end of the three seats and put our bags in the middle. It was a sunny day, the windows were open and we were full of home-time good vibes. Lovely.
We'd just left the glamourous location of Treforest and the train was picking up speed, when suddenly, there was a deafening noise that sounded like an explosion. The whole carriage went silent, fearing the worst. Surely there weren't bombers on the Valley Lines service to Merthyr Tydfil?
A bit shell-shocked, Al looked down at the seat next to us. Right in the middle of it was a rock the size of a clenched fist. The banging had been the rock. Crashing against the open window, bouncing off the ceiling, then landing erm... a stone's throw... away from our heads.
A few inches to the left or a few inches to right and either one of us could have been a goner in a Goliath stylee.